


Fashion Faceplant

by hopelessbookgeek



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Gentle ribbing, Rude people being bad friends, York has terrible fashion sense and the whole world knows it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:41:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelessbookgeek/pseuds/hopelessbookgeek
Summary: York can't dress himself to save his life. His friends are at turns shocked, horrified, and outraged.





	Fashion Faceplant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Legendaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/gifts).



> This is trash no one look at me

It wasn’t exactly _hard_ for someone to find themselves attracted to York. He was consistently at the top of the leaderboard, sometimes miles ahead of the third ranked; he had a collected, easygoing nature with a good sense of humor and a heart of gold; he stood six-foot-four in armor and had a face like if the boy next door was maybe kind of an asshole, but never in an off-putting way.

But it was much, much easier to be attracted to him when he only had two clothing options.

See, most of the time, the Freelancers stuck to two types of clothing. The first was training gear, which could cover anything from the full Starburst-colored array of armor down to muscle tanks and sweatpants. That was a certain type of look, and York attracted a little clique of spectators when he’d show up at the gym in a wifebeater and lift weights.

The second was pajamas, and those lended a distinct softness to the elite supersoldiers, humanized them almost. York kicking up his slippered feet and sipping a mug of coffee wasn’t as eye-catching, but it did make him look sweet and approachable and relaxed, and there was a certain vibe to that too.

The problem was all the other little moments.

The first time he showed up to a function in a tuxedo and athletic socks, it didn’t occur to Carolina to kill him. Her patience wasn’t tested, only her curiosity: _how could he not know?_ “You’re wearing workout socks,” she pointed out, in case he was only mistaken.

“I guess so,” he said with a shrug. “They were clean.”

“York. You can’t wear _athletic socks_ to a _black tie_ affair.”

His brow crinkled up. “But they’re _black socks_ ,” he said, like _she_ was the idiot.

“York. A black tie look is all about the details.”

“No one cares about the details when the details are my socks.”

“ _No one cares about the details_ ,” she repeated mockingly. “This explains your track record with lockpicking in the field.”

“Hey! I have no depth perception! Cut a guy a break. Besides,” he said, with that devil-kinda-cares-a-little grin, “I think you’re just _green_ with envy.”

He gestured to her dress, but it was the same color as her armor. “This isn’t green, and your jokes are awful. We’re gonna be late. Don’t wear athletic socks with a tux.”

***

It was like he went out of his way to dress badly, she figured, and even more out of his way to fuck with her by doing it. He wore cargo shorts to meals. He wore socks with slip-on sandals. Shore leave was the goddamn worst; a weekend at the beach meant he was in civilian clothes at all times, and he seemingly didn’t own an article of clothing that wasn’t just the worst.

Carolina was good at everything she did, as long as she cared about doing it. She couldn’t stand being laughed at or outshone, and would only let her friends rib her so much before she’d get annoyed and shut it down. She and York were a lot alike; he wouldn’t be as consistently high on the leaderboard as he was if he wasn’t as driven and focused as she was. So to see him, talented York, respectable York, beautiful York, in a hat that read “in dog years I’m dead” was a blow to her ego the likes of which she had never experienced.

It wasn’t just her confused and frustrated, either. North’s favorite pastime was finding new and inventive ways to mock him for his taste in outfits, and Wash’s horror only grew with every “I Heart NY” t-shirt. One morning, Carolina, North, and York were at breakfast, and while Carolina was in leggings and a tank and North was in armor, York had chosen to wear sweatpants and a “sun’s out, guns out” shirt in a truly atrocious neon yellow.

“I think it’s _fashion forward_ ,” he was saying to North.

“It’s a fashion faceplant,” North counted. “You know it, I know it, the whole ship knows it. You’re glowing like a beacon.”

“I’m the flame to which the moths are drawn, my man.”

North looked around at the way the Freelancers at the tables nearest them were pointedly avoiding looking at their table. “You’re drawing in no one. Look, you’re blinding Massachusetts.”

“She’s fine,” he said, waving his hand. “And honestly, y’all should let me express myself. I have a right to dress as badly as I want.”

“You do,” North agreed, “but only because this is the galactic equivalent of international waters. Soon as we set foot on occupied territory again I’m burning that shirt directly in front of your good eye.”

“You’re overreacting,” York started to say, but was interrupted by Wash’s appearance.

“ _No!_ ” shouted Wash, pointing a finger at York accusingly. “No! I’ve had just about goddamn enough of this! I didn’t come to breakfast to look at you dressed like _that!_ ”

“Relax,” York said in a soothing voice, but Wash would not be cowed.

_“No! God made you so beautiful and you spit in his face by DRESSING LIKE **THAT?!** ”_

Carolina wasn’t laughing. She’d swear later that no way no how was she laughing. She definitely wasn’t…

Okay. Maybe just a little.


End file.
